


The Hero Complex

by Marrilyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Backhanding, Beating, Blades, British Men of Letters, British Men of Letters Being Assholes, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring, Caring Dean, Chains, Character Death, Comfort, Cuffs, Daggers, Dean Is In Hero Mode, Dean's Hero Hair, Death Threats, Face Punching, Friendship, Gen, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Gunshots, Hair-Tugging, Hair-pulling, Hitting, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Ketch Is a Psychopath, Kidnapping, Magic-Users, Men of Letters, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Physical Abuse, Points To Everyone Who Gets the Reference, Punching, Rowena (Supernatural) Whump, Rowena Is In Need, Rowena Whump, Secluded Location, Threats, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Torture, Violence, Weapons, Whump, Wounds, beating up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 17:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10167959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marrilyn/pseuds/Marrilyn
Summary: Mr. Ketch tortures Rowena and Dean comes to her rescue.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Written for my friend Janice.

Rowena had vowed to stay out of trouble, but when trouble found her, there wasn't all that much she could do to stay out of it.

This time, much to her own surprise, she wasn't even doing anything wrong. She was out shopping (with money she'd earned legally, mind you, by selling some of the antiquities she had no use for anymore), enjoying her new, evil-free life, when she bumped into him, and in an instant everything changed for the worse.

His arms were crossed in a stern way, much like those of the mall's security guards. His face was neutral, devoid of all emotion, though she could see hints of a small, barely visible smile on his tightly shut lips. He stared at her, his eyes firmly locked with hers, and she felt as though they could pierce straight through to the core of her rotten soul. It was one of the most intense gazes she'd ever come across. Whoever this man was, he must have practiced the art of intimidation for even though she wasn't exactly frightened, Rowena, a centuries old witch, still managed to feel uneasy in his presence.

"Excuse me," she said, trying to push past him. She didn't know who – or what, for that matter – he was, but one thing was for certain – she wanted to get as far away from him as possible.

He grabbed onto her arm, keeping her in place; his grip was tight, rough, fingers digging into her delicate skin firmly enough to leave marks.

The man's other hand reached for her hand, and in a short, swift moment, before she could even ponder on what was going on, something cold and hard wrapped around her thin wrist. A cuff, she realized, one bearing runes and symbols all too familiar to her.

Fucking hell! After all this time, they finally managed to get their dirty hands on her.

"Scream and you're dead, witch," he said, his voice as cold and calculating as his demeanor.

She was dead either way, she thought, but still, she did as he said. She was in no rush to die. If keeping quiet means she got to live a few hours longer, so be it.

* * *

Rowena always thought the British Men of Letters to be rather fancy folk (with macabre tendencies, though she really had no place to judge in that department), so it was quite a surprise when he took her to a small, dirty shed in the middle of nowhere. He'd blindfolded her before shoving her into his vehicle, though she could still tell, by the forest that seemed to go on for miles, they were a long way away from civilization, their only company insects and wild beasts that roamed these thick woods.

The first thing he did was chain her hands up like Lucifer had all those months ago. Rowena couldn't resist rolling her eyes. All of these morons were so predictable. Why couldn't she, for once in her life, be captured by someone willing to try something new? Because this whole chains thing was getting repetitive and rather, dare she say, boring.

Rowena was an adventurous soul. She craved novelty, even when endangered, and none of her captors quite delivered.

If he was going to kill her, the least he could do was find a new, unique way to do it.

"Where are they?"

The first time he asked her that, she told him the exact same thing she kept repeating every single time afterwards.

"I don't know."

And, just like the first time, his fist connected with her cheek in a strong punch that sent her head flying sideways. Rowena grunted, swallowing the rush of pain, as a new, fresh trail of blood slid down her nose.

He wanted to know the whereabouts of some supposedly powerful witch covens and he wasn't taking no for an answer. Rowena had heard of some of those covens, but for years she thought they were dead, wiped out by hunters and the American Men of Letters. Hearing they were still around, and practicing powerful magic at that, was news to her.

The man, who identified himself as Mr. Ketch, wasn't impressed by her answer. Every time she'd tell him she didn't know, he would hit her, each time harder, with more force. She couldn't see herself, but she was certain her face, her sweet, precious face, resembled a field devastated by a bomb, its beauty, at least for a moment, tarnished by cuts, bruises, and blood both caked and new.

She tried to cast some spells to set herself free, but the cuff on her wrist, inscribed with ancient magic-blocking runes, suppressed all the magic she attempted to summon. Ketch laughed in her face, grabbing her chin forcefully, his rough fingers marking her skin with deep, painful red. He got into her face, eyes prodding into hers in a menacing glare.

"Your magic can't save you now."

His voice sent chills of dread down her spine. She felt her body tremble, overcome with pure and utter horror the mere sound of his voice awoke within her. No mere human should have that effect on her, and yet here he was, mortal and magic-less and so, so terrifying.

It was his demeanor, she realized. The coldness, the harshness, the complete lack of a moral compass. This man couldn't feel the way most humans did. Hell, even she, at her worst, could feel something akin to guilt, but not him. Ketch was more machine than human, running on instinct rather than feelings for he had none but pleasure that came with torturing her. He was a sadist, her pain his greatest thrill, reaching his high every time he'd hit her and make her bleed.

For him to feel good she had to hurt. This wasn't even about the covens, not anymore. He wanted her to suffer, and he wanted to enjoy it to the fullest.

"Pathetic creature," he spat as she tried to recoil from him, his nails cutting into her sensitive skin.

In a swift movement he released her, shoving her away, then grabbed a fistful of her messy hair and pulled her back over to him. Rowena let out a painful hiss, biting at her tongue to stop the tears from falling. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She may have been defeated, but she wasn't broken. She still had some fight left in her, some defiance that she was more than glad to shove into his condescending face.

He could hit her and insult her all he wanted; she'd been through worse in all her centuries on this Earth, and each and every time she'd come out a winner. She might die now, yes, but that didn't mean she had to give up. She was a survivor, a fighter, a force not to be reckoned with. If there ever was someone who could defiantly stare death in the face, it was her.

"That the best ye can do, wiener boy?" she dared, shooting him her most dangerous look – which must have appeared silly, considering her bloodied, broken face.

Ketch narrowed his eyes, smiling for a moment before his face grew serious once more. Giving her hair one final, painful tug, he released his hold on her, instead opting to swing at her stomach.

Rowena let out a scream followed by a gasp, squealing at the impact. Her arms helplessly pulled at the chains. Knees weak and trembling, she took a few small steps back, receding from the dangerous man.

Ketch watched her, absorbing the sight of the frightened witch. "Tell me where your coven mates are and no one has to get hurt."

"I told ye," she gasped, struggling for breath, her bruised stomach pulsating with pain, "I don't know." She allowed herself to raise her head and looked him straight in the eye. "And even if I did, I wouldn't tell ye."

"Perhaps you need some motivation."

He walked over to a safe placed upon an old, rotten wooden table, opening it to reveal a wide variety of weapons Rowena had never seen before, though there was no doubt in her mind they were not to be taken lightly. The Men of Letters were known for their fancy equipment. Even back in the olden days, their technology greatly surpassed that of mere hunters.

Ketch grabbed a small, silver-coated blade, its sharp surface glistening under thin rays of light that broke through the cracks of windows nailed shut. He observed the weapon, carefully turning it over in his hands, the look on his face that of pure devotion.

It was the first trace of genuine emotion Rowena had seen on him, and she couldn't stop the cold shivers from creeping down her spine as the man took the weapon to his lips and pressed a light, gentle kiss atop the blade.

Ketch turned to look at her, a wicked smirk creeping onto his lips. He padded over to her, one slow, calculating step after the other, his right hand tightly gripping the dagger's handle.

Rowena's knees wobbled; instinctively, she drew back, her hands gripping the tight chains keeping them bound. Fear crept over her, squeezing at her fast beating heart, her breaths short and quick, throat constricted by ever growing fear.

 _No,_ she thought. _Please, no. Don't._ Though she knew she was in mortal danger, it was only now that the realization that she was going to die settled in.

This was it, her final moment of a long life that, if she gave it some thought, she pretty much wasted. She should have been a better person, a better mother. Her thoughts shifted to her son, the ever powerful King of Hell. She never got to say sorry, never gathered enough courage to take the first step and apologize for all that she had done to him.

Then she thought of Winchesters, the two lads she had a rather complicated relationship with, to put it mildly. Both sides had tried to kill the other multiple times, yet she still harbored certain fondness for the wayward boys, and she was more than sure the feeling was mutual.

Sam, despite not trusting her with the spell book, had still trusted her enough to leave his memory-wiped brother in her care.

And Dean… She liked to think they'd bonded in that short time she'd cared for him in his vulnerable state. She'd told him her secrets and trusted him not to tell. He'd claimed not to remember a thing, but she knew better. The look on his face had said it all. He knew, and he respected her wish for it to remain private.

She appreciated that.

She appreciated them.

It was nice to know that she at least had someone in her long life, a few good, noble people, a stark contrast to her, she could consider her allies.

A single tear escaped her eye, sliding down her bloodied cheek. Ketch chuckled, his finger reaching to wipe it away. Rowena shivered under his touch, a strangely gentle one for a wicked creature such as him. He cupped her cheek, giving it a light, almost friendly pat. Rowena's stomach churned in disgust, her eyes closing shut; she tried to turn her head, but his hand tangled in her hair, grabbing a fistful, and yanked back, forcing her to look him in the eye.

"Talk," he commanded, his stern tone leaving no place for argument. It was no suggestion, but an order he expected to be obeyed or the consequences would be grave.

Rowena, though, was in no mood for his petty games. "No," she told him, shooting him a look of pure and utter defiance. Why should she make it easy for him? He was going to kill her anyway. The least she could do was stay true to herself, to her character, in his last moments.

Before she could take another breath, Ketch tugged at her hair, pulling her head back to expose her tender neck. His blade pressed against her skin, grazing the surface, a droplet of blood pooling at the tip of the tiny cut and staining the flawless blade.

Rowena whimpered like a wounded puppy, tears falling freely down her cheeks. She must stay strong, she told herself. She couldn't give up. If she had to die, she would do it with grace. Gone were the times when she sucked up to her tormentors. Her dignity was all that she had left and she wasn't going to compromise it for a wee bit of false hope.

"Do it," she dared, putting on her bravest face. "Kill me."

Ketch pushed the blade harder to her neck, deepening the cut. Rowena hissed as blood poured out the fresh, stinging injury, soaking her expensive dress. He tugged at her hair once more, giving her head a strong shake, prompting her to let out a yelp as the blade dug deeper into the wound.

"Oh, I will." He leaned over, close enough for his warm breath to linger on her bruised face. "My, how I will make you scream."

"Get to it, then," she spat.

"Oh, but I haven't had my fun yet."

Hasn't he? From what she'd seen, he'd had plenty of fun.

"This was just foreplay," he continued, the tone of his voice the same one one would read the phonebook in. "The real fun is about to begin."

His eyes trailed down her body, tracing her curves hugged by the ripped, bloodied gown. Rowena flinched at the implication; it was bad enough when Lucifer did it, threatening her with what every woman feared the most.

Now she had to hear it from him.

While the devil relied on mind games, Ketch, a sadistic psychopath, seemed like the type to make good on his threats.

Before she could come up with a retort, a new, gruff voice sounded in the tiny shed, startling her from grim thoughts.

"I'm not so sure about that."

Ketch's smirk widened. He turned to look at the newcomer, eyes beaming with joy. "Dean," he greeted in an almost friendly manner. "Have you come to join the festivities?"

"Torture's not really my thing," Dean said, flashing a shit-eating grin, the gun in his head pointing straight at him.

"I've heard otherwise," Ketch stated.

"Don't believe everything you hear."

Out of everyone, Rowena never, not even in her wildest dreams, could have imagined the older Winchester coming to her rescue. Her heart swelled, a pinch of warmth pouring in and diluting the usual coldness. The hunter may not have been her biggest fan, but he still came for her. He cared enough to see to it that she lives that he was willing to risk his own life to confront the dangerous killing machine that was Ketch.

The sharply dressed Man of Letters took a step closer, rubbing the blade against her raw wound.

"I wouldn't do that," Dean warned, finger hovering over the trigger as he positioned his aim to Ketch's heart.

"Stay out of this, Dean," the Brit warned.

"No can do."

"It doesn't concern you."

"Oh, I think it does."

Dean shot Rowena a look, his face bearing a look of utmost concern. Perhaps this was him returning the favor for when she helped him with the Loughlins, she mused. Or, more likely, his hero complex took over and he couldn't walk away from a person in need, even if that person happened to be a centuries old wicked witch with impeccable fashion sense and a sassy mouth that had gotten her in trouble more times than she could count.

Ketch laughed. "What, are you fond of this whore?"

"She's an ally," Dean said.

"She's a monster!"

The older Winchester threw Rowena another glance. As their eyes met for a second time, a new batch of tears welled up in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks in warm, salty streams.

"Yeah, well, she's our monster."

If the situation wasn't so dire, Rowena would have smiled at his words.

"Never pegged you Winchesters for traitors," Ketch said, eyeing Dean's finger resting firmly on the trigger, eager and ready to pull. "Guess it comes with the territory, considering the filth you associate with."

His hold on Rowena's hair tightened, causing the witch to let out a helpless, broken yelp.

"Let her go!" Dean demanded, taking a step forward.

Ketch, in turn, pressed the dagger harder against Rowena's injured neck. She whimpered, swallowing hard, her heart beating dangerously fast.

"What if I refuse?" he dared.

"Don't make me do this, man. Just let her go."

Ketch chuckled, then his face grew serious once again.

"No," he said simply, his voice stone cold. "See, this is the problem with you American hunters. You care for monsters. You don't want to hurt their feelings, so you let them do whatever the hell they want."

Rowena squirmed, attempting to free herself from his hold. Releasing her hair, Ketch backhanded her across the face. The injuries on her face stung upon the impact, and blood poured out of newly open cuts. He grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her close so his blade could once again rest against her wounded skin.

"Now we – we take them out. We get rid of the problem. You can't hurt their feelings if they're dead."

Ketch swung the blade, aiming for her neck; Rowena closed her eyes, preparing for death, hoping that, wherever she ends up, it hurts less than this, and that her son, if she happens to meet him again in Hell, finds it in his heart to forgive her misdeeds.

Suddenly, a gunshot rang throughout the small shed. Rowena gasped, her eyes snapping open, only to meet Ketch's wide, lifeless ones. A bullet wound adorned his abdomen, blood pouring out in streams and pooling at his feet.

"One more thing, douchebag," Dean said as he put his gun back into its holster. "She's not a whore."

The Man of Letters took one last breath before collapsing to the cold, dirty floor. The dagger fell out his limp hand, landing near Rowena's right heel. Letting out a sigh of relief, the witch pushed the blade away; she didn't want that thing anywhere near her, not after what almost happened, after what that sadist almost did to her.

Dean was quickly by her side, untangling the chains binding her wrists. "You okay?"

"I've been better," she replied honestly.

Her hands fell free and she rubbed her bruised wrists. She flinched as Dean's firm hands grabbed hers as he took a long, thorough look at her injuries. His eyes trailed up her arms all the way to her face; he winced at all the blood adorning her sensitive skin, all red and swollen by countless cuts and bruises.

"There's a first aid kit in the car. Come on."

He led her out, wrapping an arm around her tiny waist for support. Having nothing more to lose, for heavens know her dignity was long gone, she leaned against him, holding on to him as they walked in silence.

Rowena squinted at the bright sunlight, her free hand covering her aching eyes. Dean helped her to his car, which she leaned against while he went to fetch the first aid kit from the trunk.

It felt good to be out again, to be free and safe from harm. Even though it had only been a few hours, for Rowena it felt like a lifetime. It wasn't the worst torture she'd ever been through, not by a long shot, but it ranked pretty high on the scale.

"How did ye find me?" Rowena asked as Dean set the first aid kit atop the car and started to look through it.

"Cas saw you get taken," he explained, taking out a bandage. "Crowley had his demons look around and they reported seeing Ketch's car around this area. He tried to get in, but this place is heavily warded, so he, Sam, and Cas are on their way by car."

Rowena's heart swelled with joy. He cared. Despite everything that happened between them, her son cared about her. He cared enough to go look for her, enough to partner with the Winchesters and their feathered friend to come to her aid. That shouldn't have made her so happy, but for some reason she couldn't have been happier.

Dean took her left hand into his, tossing away the cuff that bound her magic, and began cleaning the wounds. She hissed as he grazed a particularly deep cut on his wrist, her other hand giving his a light slap.

"Would it kill ye to be a wee more gentle?"

He shot her a baffled glance, muttered an apology, then went back to work. Once he was finished with her left hand, he began to take care of her right one, carefully removing the dirt and caked blood that adorned her injured wrist.

"How come ye're here alone?" she inquired.

"They were taking too long," Dean said simply.

"Couldn't ye wait?"

He flashed her one of his brightest smiles. "Good thing I didn't, isn't it?"

Rowena pulled on a smile of her own. He wasn't wrong. "I suppose. Still, why? Why not wait for yer brother?"

Dean shrugged. "I guess I felt like I owed you."

"Ye _did_ owe me," she pointed out.

"Did?" He raised his eyebrows curiously. "As in – past tense?"

"I'm a woman of my word."

He snorted.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said. "You just don't strike me as the kind to…"

"The kind to – what? Keep my word?" She scoffed. "Looks can be deceivin'."

"I guess they could," the hunter agreed.

Releasing her hand, he switched to her face, tenderly wiping the blood. Rowena winced as he accidentally pressed on a rather painful bruise, and Dean was quick to apologize, gently tapping around the injury with the blood-soaked cloth.

"Thank you," she said.

"What for?" he asked as he applied a band-aid to a smaller cut on her chin.

"Savin' me."

"Don't mention it." He grinned. "It's kinda in my job description."

"It's also in yer job description to kill my kind."

"Only the bad ones."

Rowena raised her eyebrows. "And I'm not bad?"

"You're… okay."

"Just okay?"

The hunter chuckled. "I've seen worse."

Rowena clasped her hand over her heart, feigning hurt. "I'm not sure whether that was a compliment or an insult."

"It was a compliment. Either take it or leave it."

"We'll see." She smiled. "What's my face look like?"

"Well…" Dean looked her over, cringing at the state her face was in. "It's… not as bad as it looked with all the blood and gunk."

"Do I dare look in the mirror?"

"Probably not," he said honestly. "We'll, uh, get you some ice for that when we get to the bunker."

Rowena shot him a glare. "Ye don't seriously think I'll go back to that place? After all the times ye and yer giant brother imprisoned me there?"

Dean sighed. "We're sorry for that. But," he raised his forefinger, "you weren't exactly innocent back then. Cut us some slack."

"And if I don't?" she teased.

"They're your wounds," he said, shrugging.

He had a point there. "And how do I know ye bampots won't imprison me again?"

"I just rescued you! Why would I want to imprison you?"

"I guess ye do have a point," she allowed.

"Thank you," he said sarcastically, prompting her to roll her eyes.

"Do ye lads have any tea in that bunker of yers?"

Dean wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Why would you even ask that?"

"I'll take that as a no."

"Who even drinks tea?"

"I do, otherwise I wouldn't have asked."

"But… why?"

"I'm Scottish, dear," she said.

He frowned, waiting for her to continue. "And?"

She sighed exasperatedly. How could such a skilled man be such a moron? It made no sense. _"And_ us Scottish folk like tea."

Dean looked mortified. "I'm so glad I'm not from Scotland."

"As am I," she said. "Wouldn't want a brute such as yerself tarnishin' my country's reputation."

"Hey!" he exclaimed, offended.

"Just tellin' it like it is, dear."

"You're mean," he whined.

"And ye're a pain in the arse."

"You say that like it's an insult."

Just then Castiel's tacky pimpmobile appeared in the wooded path. Rowena's mouth widened into a smile almost on instinct. Though the windows were dark, the witch could make out the three faces staring straight ahead – the driver, Castiel, appearing worried, with Sam and Crowley in the back, looking embarrassed at having been forced to ride in that car.

"You ready?" Dean asked.

Rowena nodded, torment forgotten for a short moment, replaced by slowly growing hope. "As ready as I'll ever be."

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize if Ketch seems OOC. I still haven't gotten the feel for his character so I can't write him that well.


End file.
